Truth and Happiness
by flootzavut
Summary: "Truth or happiness. Never both." - Doctor Cal Lightman. Tag to 3.5 Canary's Song, starting in and following on from the last scene. Callian. Cal's POV.


He isn't sure what he expected to find when he got back to the office, but it definitely wasn't Torres passed out and Foster seeing stars, literally, courtesy of his alcohol cabinet.

It's kind of nice.

He can't keep from grinning as she pats his helmet affectionately, swaying gently to the music floating out from the open door.

"I'm waiting."

 _Thank you_. It's such a simple thing. Something he should say a lot more often, if he's honest. So what if she can read gratitude in his face? It's hardly the point. She shouldn't have to ask him to get those two little words out loud now and then. He's an arse for needing to be prodded.

He sets her firmly on her feet, and tries to banish thoughts of how much he wants to keep her in his arms where she belongs.

She needs something else from him now. She's looking at him, serious, expectant, and she's not going to be put off. He doesn't want to put her off anyway. She deserves to hear it.

He takes a deep breath, tries to inject his words with all the sincerity he can muster up in his face and especially in his voice, says it slow and deliberate, trying to make up for the many, many times he's failed to say it at all. "Thank you for cleaning up my mess, Gillian."

There's a moment of silence. When she speaks again there's a smile on her face and running through the words. "I can't _wait_ until tomorrow."

"Why, what's tomorrow?" He has a suspicion he knows what's coming.

"I get better looking every day."

He smiles gently at her as she reaches up and switches the light on his helmet off, and against his better judgement, he steps in closer. She's like fire. Dangerous, he can't, mustn't, get too close, or he'll get burned. But she's light and warmth and home and he can't stay away, either.

He's not seen her this lit up in a long while, and he'd forgotten how funny and adorable she is when she's drunk. She's swaying on her feet, but she's still Gillian, still graceful and radiant and absolutely bloody beautiful. He's so grateful she's properly in his life again, the rift between them mended, or at least on the mend.

She giggles throatily, like she did before when she was snuggled into his neck, and her smile widens. "Kiss me."

He takes in a sharp breath. "What?"

"Kiss me, Cal." She smiles up at him beatifically, and he wonders if this is just his single malt talking or if in vino veritas applies to barley alcohol as well as grape.

He sighs. Apparently his shades of grey morality, which serves him so well in getting beautiful women into his bed and hang the consequences, deserts him when it comes to Gillian. He strokes her hair back from her face and then lets his hand smooth over her cheek. If she gets better looking every day, he's screwed, because she's already enough to take his breath away. "You know I want to, darling. But I can't do it like this, not when you're drunk."

She rolls her eyes. "You chose a strange moment to get all shivvy- shit- chivalrous on me, Doctor Lightman." She blinks slowly, then looks up at him again. "How's that work? You have the morals of an... alleycat."

Even slurring her speech, she's got him pinned, and it's just one more thing he loves about her. He shrugs. "Not when it comes to you."

She shakes her head and leans forward to rest against his shoulder again with a sigh. "What if I want you to kiss me anyway?"

He shrugs again. "Ask me tomorrow, love. Ask me sometime, _any_ time when you're sober, and I promise you, I will _not_ disappoint."

"Maybe this is a one time offer."

He tilts her chin up till she's looking him right in the face, then leans in to kiss her, so chastely, so lightly. Nothing like how he wants to kiss her, but he's not a saint, after all. It's hard (by which he means bloody impossible) to entirely turn down the invitation. "I'd hate myself for taking advantage," he murmurs, "and you'd hate me, too."

Her mouth purses into a particularly irresistible little pout. "No, I wouldn't."

"Yeah, you would. And you'd be right to, as well."

She shakes her head, and it's comically slow, and she's really a _very_ cute drunk. "I could never hate you, Cal. Tried. Didn't work."

He chucks her under the chin and grins. "Well, I'm doing my best to keep it that way, all right?"

Her head drops back down with a sigh. "Hmph." She's trying to sound annoyed, but she mostly sounds contented.

He's not sure if he's more scared she'll remember this in the morning or that she won't. In the meantime, she's curled up close against him, warm and soft and trusting, and he wraps his arms around her again, savouring how good, how _right_ it feels.

God, he missed her. He was a bastard, and he doesn't deserve her, but for some reason she puts up with him anyway, puts up with him being a shitty friend and a shitty partner, and he really, really hopes she has some idea just how much it means to him.

Sometimes he thinks his compulsion to push and push at her is plain old fear. Fear of intimacy, fear of the unknown, simple fear of screwing up his relationship with the most important person in his life besides Emily.

Other times he wonders if he's testing her, like a child tests its parent, to make sure she really will stick around, that she isn't about to give up on him or desert him or let him down or leave him. After all these years, he shouldn't need the reassurance, shouldn't need to test her any more, but he's still unbelievably grateful she keeps passing.

He presses a kiss into her hair, grins when she snuggles in closer. "You need to lie down, love."

"'S that an invitation, Lightman?"

He chuckles. "To my sofa, yes."

She considers this for a moment. "'Kay."

She doesn't seem inclined to move, and he wouldn't be at all surprised to learn she can't feel her legs right now. He could pretend to have a little common sense, but screw it. He scoops her up into his arms and grins again when she doesn't protest, just leans into him and tightens her arms around his neck.

By the time they're inside, his back is reminding him he's way too old for grand, romantic gestures.

He looks down at the unused couch and grimaces. He doesn't much fancy waking up with Gillian in his lap and finding Torres as his audience. He might deprecate her abilities as unscientific even now, but she's good. She will see altogether too much, and probably won't be able to keep her big mouth shut.

Gill's half asleep in his arms and clearly isn't about to protest, so he makes the short trek down to the corridor to her office and uses her feet to push open the door. Here's another sofa, and this one doesn't have a potential audience. The sensible thing to do would be to deposit her here, very carefully and gently, then leave her in peace, with a glass of water for when she wakes up.

Sensible doesn't much appeal. If he was being sensible, he would've left her in his office and gone home, left the pair of them to sleep off their whiskey hangovers and curse his name with only each other as witnesses. The good ship sensible has already sailed. Instead, he props her up at one end of the couch and goes off to find her some water.

When he returns, he's mildly impressed she's still upright. He hands her the water and sits down next to her, close enough for her perfume to get in his nose, then when she's done he rather sheepishly holds his arms out and is pleased and relieved when she settles back against him and makes a happy noise. "'Nks, Cal."

"My pleasure, darling."

Her arm wraps around his waist, and the smacking sound she makes with her lips makes him smile. It makes him think of Emily as a baby, and it seems fitting how his two favourite people so frequently remind him of each other. "'Night, Gill."

"You..." She walks her fingers up his neck and lightly touches his cheek. "Love you, Cal."

It's the softest admission, so soft he's not entirely sure he should trust his hearing - and even if he trusts that, he'd be a fool to assume she means anything more than 'as a friend, as family'.

Still... it's a good way to end his day. Her breathing slows towards sleep, and he kisses her hair again and pulls her in closer.

And if you can't be honest in the wee hours when your best friend is curled up all trusting-like in your lap, when can you? "Love you too, Gillian."

One of these days, he'll figure out a way to tell her properly.

In the meantime, well, maybe for a little while truth and happiness _can_ coexist, after all.


End file.
